#that's like telling a cat to just Tell you what it wants. man what are you expecting here hbfvhs

[dadbodbuck]

could it shine down here with you?

Rating: G | WC: 1.7k | Pairing: BuckTommy

Loosely based on this post by @loulovingho!

Summary:

Tommy doesn't realize until later that he already asked for Thanksgiving off.

Read it here on Ao3 or continue below!

Tommy is five, or maybe six, and he doesn’t like Thanksgiving. His dad is screaming at his mom because the turkey isn’t thawed. He’s calling her a lot of words that Tommy thinks are really mean. Tommy’s dad yells a lot, but it’s rarely this bad. Tommy’s mom usually waits for it to blow over, but this time, Tommy watches from the living room entry as her face crumbles and she shoulders past Tommy’s dad, breezes by Tommy, and flees into their bedroom.

Tommy wants to follow her, but his dad grabs his arm, too-tight, and tugs Tommy away towards where the half-thawed turkey is laying on the ground, cold and slimy. When they get there, Tommy’s dad hands him a garbage bag and a roll of paper towels and says “Your mom needs some time alone to think about what she’s done. Clean up this mess.”

It’s okay, because later his mom comes out of the bedroom and kneels down, her eyes red and puffy, and she tells him, “I’m so sorry you had to see that, honey. You did a good job cleaning the kitchen. It’s okay, we can still have dinner, even if I messed up the turkey,” and she makes Stovetop stuffing, and takes cranberry sauce out of a can, dishing them up on a plastic plate for Tommy, and a glass plate for her.

Tommy’s not sure where his dad went, but he’s glad it’s just him and his mom for a little while.

Tommy is twelve, and he hates Thanksgiving. He hates most holidays centered around football, actually. It’s a double-edged sword—his dad gets drunk, and his dad gets riled up, and he’s either too loud and happy, or too loud and mad. The Superbowl is Tommy’s least favorite time of the year. Especially when the Rams are playing.

The Rams aren’t playing this year, but that doesn’t mean Tommy’s off the hook. Tommy brings his dad beers when his dad calls for them, doesn’t say a word to his old man, carefully doesn’t flinch when his dad yells angrily at the screen.

For the most part, Tommy sits alone in his room and looks at the picture of his mom. It’s her high school graduation, she’s gleaming in her cap and gown. Tommy misses her.

Tommy knows that his family isn’t normal. That it’s fucked up. But he also knows how to deal with his dad, especially now that his mom isn’t around to instigate anymore. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen if he gets sent to foster care. He doesn’t want to know.

Tommy also knows, somewhere, that it’s partially his own fault. Maybe if he was a better kid—someone his dad could be proud of, this wouldn’t happen. He was always doing something to incur his father’s wrath. Plus, it’s not like his dad doesn’t love him, in his own way. Tommy loves his dad, too.

Tommy makes his own Stovetop stuffing and cranberry sauce from a can. His dad doesn’t eat it, but Tommy doesn’t care, because at least he survived Thanksgiving without any more bruises.

Tommy is eighteen, and twenty-three, and thirty-one. Thanksgiving is in a shitty barracks at the base, a tiny studio in downtown LA, and the 118 firehouse. It’s spent wolfing down an MRE, trying to figure out how to get his horrible stove to work, and eating Stovetop stuffing and cranberry sauce and praying that the alarm doesn’t go off. There are the other soldiers, and Tommy’s rescue cat Teddy, and Howie.

The MRE is as it always is. You get used to the weird textures and instant coffee and chemical heat smell of the food warmer. The funny thing about Iraq, the thing that will keep Tommy awake for years and years, is that it gets cold during the winter. Tommy knew before he shipped out that he didn’t know what much about the country, but now that he’s here, he’s stuck with sick realization after sick realization. The people here are scared, and the Army isn’t helping. Tommy looks at the other soldiers in a way he shouldn’t. Civilians are dying. War is messy in a way that allows people to excuse inexcusable violence. Tommy cannot speak the language, of either the Iraqi citizens or the people he was told would be his brothers. Iraq gets cold during the winter.

Teddy is an orange beauty, with long fluffy fur and a penchant for mischief. Tommy didn’t ask for Thanksgiving off, but it’s a holiday at the Academy, apparently. So, he’s here, listening to the click of the gas range as it tries to light. Teddy watches from the tiny countertop with uncharacteristic judgment in his eyes. When the flame finally catches, Tommy laughs victoriously, and gets to work making stuffing and cranberry sauce for the first time in years. It’s not gourmet by any means, just the Stovetop and the canned stuff, but it feels like his mom. It feels like he’s talking to her again. Tommy wonders if there’s a universe out there where his mom got help before it was too late. He eats his food in the camp chair that furnishes his pathetic living room, with Teddy invading his personal space and trying to sneak a bite for himself.

Tommy keeps the tradition of making himself Stovetop and canned cranberry sauce. He keeps it the year Howie shows up at the 118 and immediately proves himself braver and stronger than Tommy ever could be. While everyone else is busy whining about missing their grandma’s mashed potatoes, Tommy scrapes together his sacred traditional Thanksgiving feast. While Tommy’s not looking, Howie steals half of it.

“Mm!” Howie sighs, “That childhood nostalgia fakeness.”

“Hey! That was mine,” Tommy says, without any real heat. He hasn’t been able to muster anything beyond mild irritation for Howie since he saved his life.

“Oh, because you were going to eat all of that in one sitting,” Howie scoffs, “I’ll pay you back your dollar for my half if you really want.”

“No, it’s fine,” Tommy huffs, scraping out the other half for his own portion. They sit at the table and eat together, and it’s the closest Tommy’s ever had to spending Thanksgiving with someone.

It’s not until they finish eating and the bell rings that Tommy realizes Howie’s the only one who hasn’t asked Tommy if he’s sad he’s missing out on the holidays.

For the most part, his Thanksgivings after the 118 are spent much the same way, but at Harbor, and alone. He gets to put his leftovers in the fridge and eat off them for a few days. Thanksgiving (save for deep fried turkey incidents) is a relatively tame holiday. No fireworks, at least.

Then, Evan.

A lot of things change for Tommy when Evan crashes into his life, all legs and a blinding smile. Evan is a whirlwind and the most beautiful man Tommy has ever seen. Evan is kind of everything.

When Tommy realizes he’s falling in love, it makes him sick to his stomach. He remembers loving his dad enough to excuse his anger, loving his mom enough to let her slip away, loving a country enough to enact its violence, loving the sense of belonging at the 118 enough to allow the kindest people he’s ever met to suffer. Tommy doesn’t love right. He can’t let Evan get tired of him and leave. He can’t poison Evan until he turns into something cruel. So Tommy breaks up with him. Evan asks him to move in, and he can feel the iron jaws of a bear trap closing around his throat, so he breaks up with him.

Tommy doesn’t realize until later that he already asked for Thanksgiving off.

(Thanksgiving came up between them for the first time when Evan asked if he wanted to do their own thing or go over to the grand 118 Thanksgiving Feast.

“I don’t know,” Evan has shrugged, “I mean, I want to spend it with you. I don’t want to pressure you into a big thing if you don’t want to, or if—if you’re used to smaller Thanksgivings. What does your family do for Thanksgiving?”

“Um,” Tommy had said, a little caught off-guard like he was every time they brushed up against the topic of family, “We didn’t really celebrate Thanksgiving. I usually just get a box of Stovetop stuffing and a can of cranberry sauce and call it a day.”

Evan had scoffed, mock-offended. “Well! In that case, we’re going. Mark your calendar. You’re going to cream your pants when you try Bobby’s turkey.”

Tommy had smiled and thought maybe. Maybe this will be the year.)

Tommy sighs and opens the box of Stovetop stuffing. His water and butter are already boiling, so he pours the mix in and watches it saturate. He stirs it and takes it off the heat to sit. A strange, painful sadness claws at the inside of his throat. It hurts. It hurts worse than it usually does.

He doesn’t think about Evan and Bobby’s allegedly orgasm-worthy turkey and Howie introducing Tommy to Jee-yun and how close they had all seemed at the hospital for Denny. He walks over to the mantle above his fireplace, with a small, framed pawprint inside, and Teddy 2021 written underneath.

Five minutes passes slowly without anyone to distract him. Tommy tries and fails not to think about every holiday he’s spent alone, or wishing he was alone. This is the first holiday he’s wished for someone in particular who wasn’t his mom or Teddy.

Tommy eats stuffing and canned cranberry sauce at his kitchen table. Somewhere, Evan is in a house warm with love. Somewhere, Evan is loved, wholly and unconditionally. Tommy’s glad people love him. He deserves to be loved.

Tommy doesn’t like watching football on Thanksgiving, so instead he puts on Mean Girls. After his stomach settles, he’s too tired to do anything but crawl into bed and sleep until his shift in the morning.

When Tommy gets to work, he’s surprised when Lucy says, “Delivery for you in the fridge, Kinard, you better eat it before I can get my hands on it.”

Inside the fridge is a glass Tupperware container wrapped in a plastic Chinese takeout bag. There’s a sticky note attached to it that says Bobby’s turkey is even better the next day.

Tommy texts Evan and asks about it. Evan doesn’t say anything back.

But he does get a text from Howie, and the timing is too quick to be coincidence. When you’re reheating it, remember to put half a teaspoon of water in the dish so it doesn’t dry everything out in the microwave.

[vivwritesfics]

Drive Me Crazy

Chapter Five

None of you are used to pack dynamics. Unlike then, it made you near feral. There's nothing more they want than to build you back up.

Lestappen X Reader

warnings: 18+, suggestive stuff, mad max, references to abuse (nothing explicit)

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four

Mad Max. A name that hadn't been used in a good long while. Last season he hadn't needed to be Mad Max, not when he was the only one winning. 

It was a fitting nickname, sometimes. That was what Charles realised as he sat beside him. On top of the bed covers, his ass positively sore. It wasn't Max he'd just had sex with. No, it was Mad Max. 

He'd slept with Mad Max before, just a few times. But those times hadn't been because Max was mad. It was after he had moved himself and his cats to Monaco, when the full moon was near and he needed to stuff his cock in something. That something, more often than not, was Charles. 

His neck ached as he reached up, touching the bitemarks Max had left behind. "Sorry," Max muttered as he grabbed a cold can of drink from the mini fridge. "At least they've stopped bleeding." 

Charles released a dry laugh from his lips. "Who knew one practice would have you so riled up," he said and laid back. He stared at the ceiling, a smile crossing his face. 

He knew exactly why that practice had Mad Max showing his face. Every time he set the fastest lap, the fastest lap was taken from him. FP1 wasn't supposed to be for going fast, but Max couldn't stop himself from racing her. And she couldn't help but race him back. Even with Max in a superior car, she raced him. 

In FP2, it was the same story. 

"She's incredible," Charles said, still holding the can against his neck. He wouldn't drink whatever was inside, just use it to sooth the wounds that Max created. Wounds Max wanted him to wear with pride, wounds he couldn't bring himself to wear. 

"Incredible?" Max scoffed. He shook his head, his hair falling in front of his eyes. "Not the words I'd use. 

Charles sat up and let the can fall into his lap. "What words then, Max? How would you describe Birdy?" 

Max didn't mean to recoil. "You've given her a name? Fuck, Charles, you really are planning on keeping this one, aren't you?" 

"Answer the question, Max." 

He let a scowl overtake his features. "You wanna know? Fine, Charles. I'll fucking tell you!" He kicked his suitcase, flipping it over and emptying it of his clothes. "She's dangerous and viscous and she's gonna be the reason you don't get into the car!"

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" 

Suddenly Charles was on his feet, too. It was going to go one of two ways, always did with Mad Max. Either Charles was going to be back on the bed, letting Max take out his aggression, or he was going to let out of there, let Max stew in his anger. 

If it wasn't about Birdy, that sweet sweet girl, Charles would have been on his hands and knees, face pushed into the pillow. 

But it was about Birdy. 

Grabbing his things from the floor, Charles marched out of the hotel room. Max didn't know what he was saying, especially not about his Birdy. His Birdy, because nobody knew what they were saying, not when it came to her. 

Even as he walked down the hall, barely dressed, the bite marks in his shoulder throbbing, he could hear Max. No doubt destroying the room, tearing it up. Mad Max. It was no full moon; it was pure anger. His usual outlet, winning races and being the fastest person alive, wasn't hitting it anymore. Because he wasn't the fastest person alive, and he fucking hated it. 

Charles couldn't help but sigh as he walked into his room. This wasn't his Max, the one he had molded. Max, who was usually the kindest man in the room. That kindness born from a childhood full of abuse. 

Just like Birdy, Charles thought. Max and Birdy, matching sides of two coins. And Charles was the other side of both those coins. She could be just as sweet as Max, he knew. She just needed a chance. 

Charles wasn't speaking to him. Max watched him, watched from the Red Bull garage as Charles walked past him. Normally he was the last person there, first to leave. But he had gotten there early, just for a chance to speak to Charles. 

But Charles wouldn't speak to him. 

Eventually, Max gave up waiting for Charles to catch his eye, to come and speak to them. All he wanted was to make up for his mistakes, all he wanted was that chance. A chance Charles wasn't giving him. 

He strode across the Red Bull garage, making his way to the Ferrari garage. "Charles," he called, and the Il Predestinato looked at him. He stepped closer and not close enough all that once. Close enough to keep it casual, too far away to show how he really felt. 

"Charles, I want to apologise for last night," he said, trying to keep himself quiet, keep the words just between them. 

Charles hadn't yet looked at him. He didn't turned towards Max when he spoke, didn't pay him any attention. Max's jaw twitched, but he didn't let it show on his face. "I was out of line, I know, and-" 

"It's not me you need to apologise to." 

Max stilled. Not me you need to apologise to. "Charlie, you can't be serious," Max whispered as he reached out to grab his arm. But Charles stepped out of reach. He looked past Max, looked across the garage. 

Max looked too. 

Birdy. That was the name Charles had given you. Beast was the name given to you by the rest of the motorsport world, the name Max knew you by. And you were a beast,  vicious beast who had gone to attack Charles. You were dangerous, and you had made that perfectly clear. 

Max steadied himself. He sucked in a breath and strode across the garage. 

It was hard to see the sweetness that Charles saw in you, not with the muzzle covering your mouth and the shock collar around your neck. You hadn't noticed him yet, head bowed as your muzzle was taken off and your balaclava was given to you.

When your handler told you to put it on, you did so. Your helmet came next, acting as a replacement for the muzzle. You fastened it under your chin, head tipping back slightly. 

And then you locked eyes with him. 

Max Verstappen. Current World Champion, lead in this year's championship. He stood before you, looking awkward and uncomfortable all at once. You couldn't help but match his pose, looking just as awkward and uncomfortable. Your helmet managed to hide your expression, though. 

"Hello," Max said, trying to get a look at your reaction. It was near impossible to get a read on you though, not with the helmet on. He looked back at Charles, watching the both of you. 

He cleared his throat, attention back on you. You hadn't looked away from him. "Look," he began, his hands dropping. "I'm sorry for..." But what was he sorry for? For thinking that you were dangerous? That was the truth, wasn't it? You were dangerous. 

"Okay, here's the thing. Charles is mad at me, so can we just pretend that we've had this big talk and I apologised for stuff?" 

The way he looked at you, expecting something. You blinked at him. If he wanted to apologise, he could go ahead and do so. But this wasn't much of an apology. 

"Come on, Beast-"

"Birdy." 

It had surprised even you. The word left your lips so suddenly, your brows furrowing beneath your helmet. You didn't want to be a beast, not anymore. 

Max stared at you, his blue eyes blown wide. "W-what?" He looked around, looking to see if anybody else had heard it. But everyone around the two of you was much too preoccupied with whatever they were doing. "Say it again, go on," he tried, but your lips were sealed. 

Speaking out of turn. 

Speaking out of turn.

Bad little wolves get punished of speaking out of turn. 

You stumbled back, trying to get away from him. "Wait," he called, but you were gone, disappearing further into the garage. 

Max desperately looked around for someone else that had heard you. But nobody else had. Birdy. The name Charles had given you. The fear had been so evident in your eyes the moment the name left your lips, he couldn't help the sadness that shot through him.

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[helen-with-an-a]

Do ale and amor encounter any issues with it being amor's first real wlw relationship and (im assuming) not ale's?

Not really but also kinda?

So Amor has had 1 other relationship in her life with a man. He was nice enough, she met him when she was in Wolfsburg, he’s still a good friend of hers (he’s now in a mlm relationship and they joke that they needed their straight relationship to figure out their sexuality) - football and his work got in the way of their relationship and it just fizzled out really. It lasted around a year but no animosity at all (they were very grown up about it all)

Since then Amor has had casual sex with women but never a relationship

Ale knew that going into it and would never judge anyone based on their previous experience (especially one of a sexual nature)

The “issues” that kinda pop up is more about just being a relationship overall.

Amor kinda forgot that you need to factor in another person into your life a little more and there was a few times in the first few months that Ale went crazy trying to find Amor but Amor was hiking and forgot to tell Ale and didn’t have a signal

Amor also loves her personal space and sometimes Ale is in Amor’s space when Amor doesn’t want her to be and so she gets a little grouchy

Ale also has sometimes where her past experiences lead her to some not fun discussions with Amor. Jenni was a pretty independent person and their relationship wasn’t as “intense” as Amor and Ale’s and that really scares Ale at first and it definitely leads to some tough thoughts for Ale about what’s going on with her and her life etc

Ale also had to have a long ole think about what she wants out of life when she met Amor. Previously, it had only ever been football - even when she was with other people and in relationships it was always football. And then Amor appeared and that changed everything. Suddenly when Ale was asked in interviews what her life would look like in 5/10 years it didn’t just have football. It had Amor and a house and family and a dog and a cat and football wasn’t her top thing anything. And that really scared Alexia which turned into a little bit of an issue for them (around the 3/4 month mark when Alexia realised just how in love she was with Amor)

[postracehair]

altitude

max verstappen x reader | 1.5k

you hate flying. but it's a necessity if you want to see max during the f1 season. when you finally fly home together during a break, will you let him help calm you down?

cw: r hates flying, anxiety, kissing, like, lots of kissing, worried max, allusions to more than kissing, fluff, george/carmen cameo

a/n: she's so me! i hate flying! but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do! wrote this way back after brazil, but have it now as a race week gift.

--

Everything changes very quickly after you meet Max Verstappen.

You are pulled into a world of action and luxury all because he wants you there. And you go willingly because you want to be with him, too. How could you not? The world famous champion is a kind, funny, and sweet man who loves his cats, his friends, and, as is becoming clear, you.

Much of the start of your relationship is scheduling. A day here and there between races, dinners and walks and movies at his place or yours. You spend a lot of time in airports when you can, working on the go and white knuckling your way through flight after flight. It's worth it to see him on the other side.

Somehow, you've never actually travelled together.

Until now.

The race weekend ends the best way possible -- the top step of the podium. A night of celebrations fades into an early morning flight on a private jet and this time, you're coming with. Because Max has three weeks off. He'll have to work, of course, spending time in Milton Keynes before the final stretch of the season, but for the most part you're going to have him all to yourself.

It does not occur to you until you're in the car on the way to the tarmac that Max has no idea how much you hate flying. You're in one of those big Sprinter vans, head on Max's shoulder as he scrolls through his phone. George and Carmen sit on the other side, the former's head tipped back as he dozes. Everyone is quiet and you're working a bit hard to keep yourself calm.

"What is it?" Max whispers. He puts his phone down and you look over at him. His hair is a mess, you can see that much even in the low light of the van. You reach out and run a hand through it.

"What?" you whisper back.

He shakes his head a little and wraps his fingers around your wrist. "You were all loose and then you got tense."

The frequent distance between you and the busy nature of your schedules demands that communication be top of mind. You do not lie to each other about your feelings, and you do not hide things. Even things like this.

"I don't really like flying," you say, softly. "I've never told you because we've never flown together. It just makes me kind of anxious. I've never been able to shake it."

His brows furrow. "Really?"

"I'll be fine," you assure him. "Just, maybe hold my hand during takeoff and landing. And if there is any turbulence."

"But -- I don't understand. Are you afraid?"

You know that there is really no way to make him understand but also that he won't stop trying to. Max gets afraid, he gets nervous. He's only human. But he combats it with sheer willpower, focus, and skill.

"I fly this way all the time," he says, urgent this time. "It's totally safe."

"That's not -- Max, I just get nervous. It's not really to do with safety. I just don't really enjoy it."

"Oi," George says, rousing. "What are you two yapping about?"

"Go back to snoring, George," Max says, not taking his eyes off you.

"Do I really snore?" you hear him ask in a hushed tone. Carmen shushes him.

"Pulling up to the plane now, folks," the driver calls back.

"Seriously," Max says, sounding a little desperate. "It'll be alright."

"I know. I fly all the time, Max." His frown deepens.

"To come see me," he reminds you. "If I knew you didn't like it, I would have --"

"What?" you interrupt. "Invented teleportation? It's okay, Max. Knowing it's to see you makes the whole thing easier, honestly."

This does not satisfy him. You can tell. It's a problem he can't solve -- his least favorite kind. There is no simulation to run for this, no meeting he can talk through, no track he can circle a thousand times.

The van door opens and you're all beckoned out onto the tarmac. You follow George and Carmen with your bag and Max is at your heels, his duffle slung over one shoulder and his other hand on the small of your back. Normally, he's not this touchy, but he seems reluctant to let your conversation in the van go.

"Max--"

"I'm thinking, liefje."

You roll your eyes. "About how to invent teleportation?"

"Something like that," he grumbles.

The jet is narrow, an aisle on one side and four rows of seats on the other. Four sets of two, a table between them. Carmen and George settle into one nook and you toss your bags into another. You slide into the window seat and Max sits heavily in the one next to you, still frowning. You let him, instead looking around to absorb the new experience.

It's much nicer than a regular plane, that's for sure. There is a cooler stocked with drinks and a cabinet full of what seems to be snacks. You can stretch your legs to rest your feet on the seat across from you. It's so early you figure all of you will just sleep, though Max's mood seems at odds with that plan.

The pilot introduces herself and gives a quick rundown of the route and airtime. You all nod and smile and then the doors close and the lights dim.

Max's hand finds yours immediately. You sit up a little and look over at him. He looks even more frazzled than he did at the hotel, when you both rolled out of bed and into comfy clothes. Soft pants and a hoodie that make him look boyish, younger than he is. But here, his cheeks are a little flushed and his jaw is set like he's about to get in his race car.

"What do you do normally?" he asks, softly. You can hear George's soft snores already. "When I'm not there."

"Max," you sigh.

"Tell me, please?"

The seat shifts under you as it heads for the runway. You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

"Well, I don't hold some random guy's hand," you tease. He squeezes your palm and huffs. 

"He could be so lucky."

The plane comes to a stop and you know what happens next. Your mind remains preoccupied with Max -- a good thing, right now -- but your body tenses and you squeeze your eyes shut tighter as the engines kick up and you pick up speed.

Max says your name but you don't budge. "Liefje," he whispers, much closer than before. You can feel his breath on your cheek as he gently holds your chin with two fingers and turns your face towards him.

And then he's kissing you. A closed mouth press of his lips to yours, firm but still. At least until you sigh into it, releasing your death grip on the arm rest to reach for him blindly, your tangled fingers between you. The kiss deepens, his nose sliding against yours as you part your lips and the chaste press becomes more. Max's tongue licks into your mouth leisurely, like he has all the time in the world to explore you. 

You kiss and kiss and kiss, so long that a voice in your head wonders if maybe you can do this for the whole flight, please? Max tugs your legs across his until you're practically in his lap, spread across the two seats like they're one.

"We're reached cruising altitude," the speakers crackle. "Feel free to move about, but please be mindful."

Max pulls away, a strand of spit glistening between you until he wipes it away with a smirk. His hair is even messier than before and his cheeks are pink. Lips swollen, eyes glassy -- you must look the same. Your heart is racing and you laugh, breathless.

"Well," Max says, then swallows. His voice is raspy, hoarse with desire. "Guess you have to fly with me from now on."

"Max." You pitch forward and settle where his neck and shoulder meet and inhale. His arms wrap around you and he holds you close. You can hear his heart racing just as fast as yours.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles. "I know."

"I can do it," you remind him. "I do it all the time. I just don't like it, that's all."

You feel the press of his lips on your hair.

"I just don't like that I can't fix it," he says. "I can't get inside your head and make you know it's alright."

"No, you can't," you sigh. The plane jerks just a little -- a swoop of your stomach that has you gasping. Max's hold on you tightens and he says your name.

"How do you do this alone?" he rasps, mouth next to your ear as he rubs your back.

"I close my eyes," you say, taking deep breaths. "And I imagine you with me."

He curses softly. "We should get a jet by ourselves next time," he mutters. "Then I can really distract you."

That gets you to laugh, though you can't say you hate the idea. It makes you feel warm, makes you press your thighs together.

"Next time," you echo. "But for now..."

Max cups your jaw and ghosts his nose over yours. "For now..."

He brings your lips together.

[yandere-daydreams]

Daytrip Illumi my beloved... and poor Darling. You capture how unnerving and unsettling he should be so well!

Illumi should be Strange and Uncanny even at his mildest(? not sure if an Illumi in love could be 'mild', but idk if it could be called volatile either. Darling was right, you can't ever tell with him); man was cosplaying Pinhead for a week. He could talk the whole time but just literally rattled at people. And poor Ghost, my stomach just dropped because everything so far was downright too tame and too thoughtful for a Yandere.

Aside from the porn, I was waiting for that drop. Darling really can't have nice things, can't she? Or rather, she can't have anything he's not able to take. Whether a Darling is defiant (Obedience Training, Ingress) or submissive (Daytrip) he's always going to pile on the trauma.

But the moment he started mouthing and groping at her in the car, I knew he was out of patience. Everything else that day was window dressing and foreplay, and the bit where she picks a cute, frilly, puff-sleeved dress really sold the toy and doll comparison later, she was so right at the observation that Illumi took her as a ballerina for his music box. In the end, the daytrip really wasn't for her to enjoy: he ripped up her dream dress, dashed her hope that her cat was doing well without her, and didn't get to eat anything at the picnic aside from the morsel he gave her. Girl couldn't even enjoy the scenery cause he blocked it off with himself. The end was so despondent in comparison to the beginning where she resolves to take any out that presents itself, falling asleep and giving into the dark (Illumi) swallowing her.

And meanwhile, Illumi's just had an epiphany on why his parents kept having kids even after the designated heir Killua. And also patting himself on the back cause he checked off all the boxes on his 'perfect romantic date to-do list', and gotten the *ideal* ending of having finally lost his v-card. 10/10, Great Day. Would do again sometime (but not too soon).

The juxtapostion between her opinion of how the daytrip went and his opinion of how it went must be... something. I almost don't want to know, and I don't know how to properly describe what this made me feel, but it's visceral.

i love it when you people treat my silly little fics like they need to be studied under a microscope,,,, i will be living on this ask for weeks thank you anon <3

illumi just makes me,,, yeah. i feel like there's so little you can do to actually fight against him (running's not an option when he has you under surveillance 24/7, fighting a seasoned hitman won't end well, etc.), but good behavior only makes him more likely to proceed with the awful things he would've done anyway, had you spent every minute from your inevitably kidnapping kicking, screaming, and cursing his name. he's got a running checklist of uncomfortable positions he'd like to see you in, and it's less a question of when you'll be ready for it and more what he'll have to do to make you compliant enough to be, if not a willing participant, than a docile one. i think he does care about your feelings and you loving him back, but your priorities are so drastically different that you two are never actually going to end up on the same page. in his mind, he's done his research (i.e. played roughly a hundred hours of the most popular dating sims he could get his hands on), been a good partner, and taken very good care of his beloved doll/pet/captive. in yours, you've been violated and abused by the man who both kidnapped you and admitted to killing your cat without blinking, and there's very little reconciliation from there.

[novankenn]

So Maifa Au. So Mercury is sent after Jaune by his still alive abusive father. So when Mercury is about to attack Jaune and Pyrrha but them Mama Arc steps in to deal with it. Cuts to Mercury crying on the couch with some and hot chocolate and a blanket telling him about his terrible father and how he didn't even want to do this. Mama Arc does on him then cuts to Arc sisters wailing on Marcus.

Date Night Disaster

(A snippet from "a Mafia" & "From Assassin to Sales Clerk" AUs)

Pyrrha was and Blake were hurting. Whomever this guy was, that ambushed them outside the movie theatre, he was good. Hampered by nothing having their weapon s, and also needing to keep Jaune and Blake safe, the pair of "former" assassins, ran, dragging their dates with them.

It was almost a good plan, but the jackass was fast and agile, meaning he was going over stuff Blake and Pyrrha had to take Jaune and Yang around. So for a good twenty minutes of a running fist fight the quartet found themselves in front of Pumpkin Pete's Novelty Store. Blake used her keys and got them all inside. Locking the doors the quartet backed from the plasticized-plate glass windows and doors.

"We just have to hold tight. The alarm should be going off, and someone will be by to check the store out." Blake panted out, as she and Pyrrha kept Jaune and Yang behind them.

"Are you guys okay?" Jaune asked.

"Who the fuck was that psycho?" Yang snapped.

"He's an asshat whose after Jaune." Pyrrha replied, her emerald eyes watching for any movement. Any sign of a threat. "We'll be safe here. It's like Blake said. Security should be around soon."

"Why is anyone after Jaune?" Yang asked, her voice filled with anger.

"It's complicated!" Blake snapped.

"Then uncomplicate it!" Yang snapped back.

The conversation died at that point as the glass of one of the doors exploded towards them, followed by a arrogantly smirking grey haired young man. He said nothing as he just came at them like a whirlwind of strikes. Both Pyrrha and Blake took multiple stiff hits from his feet and shins, before they could recover from shielding their eyes from the flying glass.

It was Pyrrha trapping on of the bastard's legs under her arm when he landed a side kick to her ribs, that gave Blake a chance to go on the attack. Blake was fast, but not a powerhouse, so while she was getting hits through the guys defenses, they weren't doing near enough damage.

"Pyr?" Jaune was at her side trying to help her up as Blake took the fight to their attacker. "Pyr!"

"Yang!" Pyrrha shouted, as she climbed to her feet gritting her teeth against the pain in her side. "You and Jaune get out of here!"

Blake was starting to get pelted by hits, so without waiting for an answer Pyrrha rushed in. The guy was a much better unarmed combatant than either Blake or Pyrrha. As the two young women specialized in bladed weapons. They were by no means slouches... they just didn't have the skills to counter the rapid kicks he was favoring.

Trapping his leg again, Pyrrha tried to grapple him. A knee strike to her chest, followed by a jumping spin kick to her head sent her spinning towards the floor. Blake knew just from how Pyrrha was stumbling that she just had a bell rung.

"Goddess of Death... what a fucking joke." the man quipped with his ever present sneer. "You're both jokes. The great Nikos, and Belladonna. You're nothing without your tools..."

"Hey asshole!" Yang shouted. "Behind you!"

"I'm not stupid enough to..." the sound of twenty pounds of sheet metal, electronics and plastic slamming into flesh, followed by a grunt of pain cut off the asshat's comment.

Blake stood there in shock. Yang had used herself as a distraction so Jaune could... rip the till from the counter with his bare hands and then swing it into the guy's shoulder and head like a flail using the power cord.

"Blake!" Yang yelled trying to get the cat faunus' attention.

"Fuckers!"

"Yang look out!" Jaune shouted, as their attacker recovered and decided game time was over. Blake dashed forward blocking the vicious strike with her back, sending her and Yang sprawling along the floor.

"Jaune!" Pyrrha screamed as she stumbled towards him, as the tall blond covered up and took a kick to his forearms that should have cracked his skull. Jaune went down and down hard. Pyrrha shoulder checked the grey haired asshole aside, and dropped down overtop of Jaune, using her body as a shield.

When a follow up attack didn't happen, Pyrrha looked up with blurry eyes. Her mind found it hard to register what she was seeing. Their attacker was getting his ass kicked by Deery, of all people! Pyrrha's vision swam and a second later she blacked out.

Deery was not happy. The store was a mess, the front door was broken, and her staff had been assaulted, along with her friends. Deery decided she would worry about explanations after. This young pup thinking he was hot shit, needed a lesson in humility. Deery's hands and feet moved with precision. Blocking, countering and redirecting every strike from her opponent, while also punching through his defenses... which he didn't have much talent for.

Snapping a kick of her own out, catching his leg with the flat of her foot, she threw him off balance. That was the beginning of the end. A blazing flurry of punches, open hand strikes, forearms and elbows peppered the s mug little shits' chest shoulders and neck, rocking him to his core, and dropping him unconscious in seconds.

"Deery?" Blake asked weakly pressing her hand to her side. Pain obvious on her face. "What?"

"I was in the neighborhood."

"What was that shit?" Yang asked, her split and swollen lip making her words sound slightly distorted.

"Self-defense course. I took it at the community center." Deery replied, "Good course, you should look into it. Great exercise. Check on Nikos and Arc. I'll take care of this..."

As the pair of young women supported each other in the walk towards their friends, Deandra "Deery" Thistle dragged the unconscious young man into the back staff room. Propping him up in a corner, she checked him over. He was breathing, which was a good sign.

Deery sucked on her front teeth as she confirmed something she had felt in her short confrontation. She sighed as she looked at the prosthetic legs hidden under the loose track pants the young man was wearing.

"Well kid you're in for a very tense talk with an angry momma bear real soon." Deery muttered as she rose and left the staff room to check on Blake and her friends.

/==/

Mercury Black awoke feeling like he had been hit by a truck, then backed over and hit by it again. Groaning he opened his eyes and blinked them back into focus. It was then he realized he was sitting on a couch, with a quilt draped over him. He also noticed his prosthetics were missing.

"Good you're finally awake." came a stern voice. Mercury turned his head to focus on the individual who was speaking. "Well I guess some introduction s are in order. I am Prismeya Arc. You are Mercury Black. You tried to kill my son, at the urging of your shit for brains father."

Mercury swallowed. He had failed the job. If he got out of this alive, his father was going to kill him.

"Now normally you wouldn't be sitting in my house, having a chat with me, all things considered. But your situation is special." Prismeya sat back in her plush arm chair and swirled her glass of red wine. "And just so you know. Everyone is a little roughed up, but they will survive. In fact you answered a couple questions for me, so thank you for that."

"Questions?"

"You need not worry about those. That's a family matter." she took a sip of her wine. "I do have a question for you, and I do hope you answer me truthfully. Did your... father..."

"Yes." Mercury answered knowing exactly what was being asked.

"I see. Excuse me a moment." Prismeya set her glass down, and picked up her scroll. "Did you here that Saphron?"

There was a pause as she listened to this Saphron, who had to be on the other end of the call.

"Good. Are all of you ready?" Another pause.

"Perfect." Prismeya gave Mercury a warm smile before speaking again. "Remove him."

The scroll was set down, and Prismeya picked up her wine glass again. She gave Mercury a soft smile before taking another sip.

"Now. Let's have a chat about your future."

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

Upper Crust

"Miss Nikos, I would assume you'd know how to wield a knife better."

Pyrrha was straight up not having a good time.

Learning Who the Arcs were was terrifying. Being in their house nearly made her heart stop.

Having Prismeya Arc, Mama Arc, the Mother of Malfortune, The Matri-Arc stand over her as she tried and failed to slice onions to caramelize them almost made her forget her own name.

"Although ... If all goes well you won't need to worry~ Jaune is quite the cook if you give him time to prepare~"

Pyrrha couldn't tell what was and wasn't a threat. She was shaking so bad she nearly cut herself with the knife three times over.

If she hadn't use the bathroom before this she likely would have peed herself.

And Prismeya simply sat there, watching. Judging. Calculating. Eyes half shut, a sharp smile other lips, swirling a rich, dark red wine in a beautiful glass.

Like a cat playing with a mouse, though Pyrrha would more liken it to a Lioness and the runt of a litter of mice.

One wrong move and her life would be over. Was the Prosthetic-Gun Rumor true? Or the Retractable Claw in place of her nails? DID SHE TRULY CONSUME THE SOULS OF THOSE SHE ENDED?

But Prismeya was simply ... Putting unneeded pressure on her. Pyrrha had wanted to kill Jaune at one point so ... Scare for a scare. Just a little bit of Schadenfreude.

The oven tim-

"AH!"

*Ahem*

The oven timer dinged, startling Pyrrha.

"Ah! The Pie is ready, I'll get that Dear~" Mama Arc lilted as she grabbed a set of Pot holders from a lovely wicker basket on a counter.

Then the Doorbe-

"AAAH!"

*A-HEM*

The Doorbell rang, startling Pyrrha greatly. Truly, there was little that could shoot her nerves any more than they already had been.

"Pyrrha, be dear and get the door~"

Mama Arc's sang out to the poor girl, who hopped straight into action and any reason to escape the kitchen. She raced to the foyer and threw the door open to reveal the new guest.

In the doorway stood a middle aged man, tired, red eyes piercing into her. His feathery salt-and-pepper hair stuck out in sloppy, odd ways, and a red cape hung off his back.

Pyrrha froze, her blood curdling in her veins.

No one made it alone in this life, and no one got to stab someone in the back without finding a knife in theirs at some point, I less you well and truly disappeared.

And the man before her was near godly at doing so.

If it weren't for the sound of her heartbeat skyrocketing in her ears, Pyrrha would've thought she was dreaming.

A hitman, a hunter, an intelligence broker, a heartbreaker, a bandit, a government officer, a cleaner, A Legend.

An Omen.

"Hey you " The smell of alcohol was strong on his breath. "Is Prismeya Arc home? I got some stuff to talk to her about."

Pyrrha hit the ground with a solid 'thunk.'

~~~~~

Jaune replaced the ice-pack on Pyrrha's head, the poor girl running a fever. She conked out when Mr. Branwen had come over, leaving his sisters to finish dinner while Jaune handled his bodyguard.

The news played in the background, Jaune listening in on some very important information.

"This is Lisa Lavender being you the biggest news of the night! Jacques and Willow Schnee have both been arrested on the grounds of Ties to Organized crime, including Gang Violence, Drug Trafficking, and Faunus Trafficking. While there is strong evidence, a deeper investigation will take place. Their children are being moved to an undisclosed, safe location for the time being. We here at the Vale News Network will do our best to keep you Updated as the story develops and information comes to light."

@novankenn for archiving.

[black-and-yellow]

[blujayonthewing]

opening the group chat for the first time today and there's like 200 new messages because everyone's Going Through It today it seems but one of my friends dropped 'I'm separating from [terrible boyfriend she's been living with for like eight years] for real this time, I just moved a bunch of stuff to my parents' and I'm losing my mind because y'all the subject changed almost immediately HEY HI EVERYBODY ELSE SHUT THE FUCK UP I WANNA HEAR ABOUT THAT???

[fortune-maiden]

I've always liked this line of dialogue from SQX, because it does feel like at the end of the day, no matter how much SQX says he can't stand PM, he does still have a decent grasp of his character.

And on the other side of this, these words are just especially pointed towards Pei Xiu, who does have a good relationship with his boss/ancestor, and also going off his backstory, Pei Ming may well have been the first person in his life to acknowledge him and his talents.

So the whole thing just feels extra sad.

[crispyjenkins]

welcome to cj/crispy's bi-yearly ptsd rant about fireworks, you are all safe and valid here and i am mentally giving out juice boxes and animal crackers

[merumis]

i hate my man roommate and his bitch girlfriend so much

[yeahlikethebird]

.

[fivekrystalpetals]

wow who would have thunk the reason the Tragedy of Sablier went down was not because of some intricate political intrigue, the four Dukedoms wanting to grab the power of the Abyss for themselves, the Baskervilles made to become the scapegoats for the Tragedy etc. etc.

but because...... every player in the backstory is I N S A N E

(I haven't read a wilder backstory for anything than this,, Retrace 66-74 what even are you???????? WHAT DO YOU MRAN OZ IS B_RABBIT DOES IT EVEN MAKE ANY SENSE??!?!?)

[neon-danger]

hello tunglr, this week a guy I told I didn’t want to see anymore followed my Instagram

Again

[coquelicoq]

"each thing I learn about you just makes me want to know you more" <-text from my neighbor just now. i don't know what i'm winning at, but i'm definitely winning at something.